down the road that has no end
by crackers4jenn
Summary: They need to find a way out of Purgatory.
1. Chapter 1

Dean is running.

Lungs aching in the kind of way that can't be good, about damn near ready to just give in and give up, when the air whooshes familiarly in front of him and he full-on smashes straight into Castiel.

Or, would have, but Castiel does the angel mojo equivalent of teleportation. One second Dean is bracing for a painful collision, the next, everything solid around him turns to air, into a weightless nothing, making Dean's stomach jerk up into his throat until they land wherever the hell Cas has taken them, and forward momentum carries Dean into something a lot more unyielding than Castiel.

"You should avoid the stalagmites," Cas offers from somewhere behind where Dean has, _oh yeah_, run chest first into a damn wall of what Dean is now guessing is a damn cave. Awesome.

Never mind the way his ribs ache all the way across, or how hard he's having to work to pull in air from being on the run for so long. He's holding Cas personally accountable for that, since the dude up and winged off, leaving him to fend for himself. Dean turns and tries to take in the new surroundings, but all he makes out is deep, dark shadows.

"Cas," he breathes, and even that hurts like a bitch. "What the hell?"

"This isn't Hell, Dean," Castiel tells him patiently, sounding like he's on the move - coming closer. Dean feels him before he sees him, and then it's all he sees, all bright white scrubs. "Are you okay?" he asks, and with the way his eyes stay locked on his, Dean knows he's talking about more than just the near face-plant he had with the cave wall.

"Where'd you zap us, Cas?" he asks instead. Now that he's looking, he can see farther into the cave. It goes back a long ass ways. That's to the front of them. To the back, there's a wide opening that's letting in all sorts of awesome jungle noises. You know, if the sound of mass murdering demons and all sorts of ancient evil were junglefied.

Cas squints at Dean, in his familiar quiet-while-I-listen-to-your-soul kind of way, before he backs off and turns towards that entrance. He straightens into a stiff stance, what Dean has come to know as Cas booting up into soldier-of-God mode. "I believe we'll be safe in here. Or, safer," he adds, with a touch of wryness that lets Dean know, no matter the aggressive way they went after Dick Roman together, this is still not a fully functioning, fully sane Castiel he's dealing with. This is Cas still short a few marbles. Friggin' wonderful.

The word 'safe' though, that triggers something in his brain that leads a straight path to Sam. The pain, his exhaustion, the confusion, all of it gets flipped to a secondary position of importance, Sam right away being Dean's main, his _only_, concern.

He almost can't even put his worries into words. Almost can't even say it out loud, stupidly superstitious that voicing his fears might put Sam in some kind of danger. Call him paranoid, but Dean is massively faithless in the universe's inability to not screw him and his brother over, even after they saved its ass.

"Sam," he says, going for gruff and winding up sounding half-convinced already that Sam is bleeding out somewhere, needing him. "Where-"

"He's not in Purgatory," Cas answers for him, but all that does is make a dozen more questions blow open inside Dean's head. Does that mean Sam got stuck behind? And what the hell did he get left behind _to_? And who?

"Knowing him, he's... probably still alive," Cas offers next, awkwardly, with his one hundred percent unhelpful brand of comfort.

"Thanks," Dean bites out, sarcasm at least still in working use, so suck on that, Purgatory.

Castiel holds Dean's stare for a long moment, until something in his eyes shifts, but when Cas makes to move towards him, one of those fun, not-human noises pierces through the quiet around them. You know, just because Dean had dropped his guard for two damn seconds and needed a reminder that shit was about to hit some sort of fan.

"You, uh. Said this place was safe, right?"

Castiel has unconsciously gravitated towards Dean, and the two of them must look damn manly, huddling real cute in some cave.

Red and yellow eyes flicker like low-batteried lamp lights in that yawning opening. Far enough away that Dean feels like they might have a chance at making it out alive, if they book it fast enough. If, too, this cave doesn't veer off into a dead end. Trust Cas to have zapped them into a death trap.

"There are sigils on the wall," Castiel just now feels like FYI-ing. Dean's confusion, and then the surprise that follows, must register, because Cas tears his gaze off the beasties outside. "They won't protect us from everything. There are, of course, certain loopholes. But they, at least," he says, and that's with a tilt of his head towards the open part of the cave, "can't get in."

So Cas had been doing something useful when he up and abandoned Dean all of three seconds after he came to. Dean doesn't know how to sit with that - he's pissed for being left behind, but begrudgingly grateful, too, that Cas's actions gives them a decent shot at living through the night.

Plus Dean notices how Castiel is favoring his left hand, where he tore through skin to use his blood for the marks on the wall, and that just makes Dean feel uncomfortably guilty, not to mention useless. All Dean managed to do was run.

Then he's hearing it in his head all over again, this loop that makes his cynicism and emo-bitch conscience duke it out: _you know me, always happy to bleed for the Winchesters_.

"So," he says, clearing his throat. "Still got a few tricks up your sleeve, then. Good to know."

"Until our presence attracts much larger threats, in any case."

Great. Fantastic.

"What do we do now?"

"I feel much more comfortable leaving that up to you," Castiel deflects, almost cheerful about it, and Dean gets the feeling that, had they been back at Rufus's, Castiel would be pouring over a board game right now, eager to check out and avoid any kind of reality or conflict or emotional heavy-lifting. Dean muscles down his annoyance.

Knowing that whatever is lurking outside can't get in redirects Dean's thoughts. Namely towards wondering what the hell that means they're stuck inside the cave with.

Like old times, almost, Castiel picks up on those thoughts. He starts moving around the space, in that restless, stilted way of his, a poster child for angel ADHD. "When we first arrived, I looked for any kind of hidden doorway that would allow us to exit. A breach we could slip through, undetected. Of course, being Purgatory, there weren't any." Castiel squats, so that one knee is on the ground. He runs a finger through what Dean guesses is dirt but might've been friggin' demonic fairy dust for all he knows. "So I altered my search and found a safe haven instead. This," he says, rising again, eyes locked back on Dean, "was the best I could do, given the circumstances."

"Cas, I'm not..." Genuinely at a loss for words, because this weird version of not-exactly-Castiel keeps managing to light up Dean's nerves in a way that puts him on edge, Dean tries again. "Hey, no complaints here. You did good."

Castiel seems pleased by that. He turns toward the back of the cave with something like a smile on his face, which: wrong. Just wrong. Not for the first time, Dean wishes for that braggy, humorless dick of an angel Cas used to be because, for better or worse, at least Dean knew what to do with that.

"Well, you shouldn't worry about shadow dwellers," Cas interrupts his thoughts with, on point. "They've been... dealt with."

And that is said with another, longer look down at the darker end of the cave, giving Dean the idea that Castiel had done some pre-whoosh ganking for the sake of proprietorial rights.

Castiel is staring at him again, that same empty smile on his face. "I believe the phrase is 'finders keepers'." Said, too, like he's satisfied with himself for knowing that bit of pop culture.

Dean bites back the urge to throttle some sanity into Cas. Instead, he screws his head on straight, starts thinking like a hunter. Shelter is well and good, but they can't sit on their asses forever. They need to find a way out of Purgatory. Hell, never mind the long-term, they need food, water. Weapons.

Trying to steer Castiel's mind back to something resembling practical, Dean moves in closer. Castiel's smile stays vacant, but his gaze at least becomes more lucid. "What'd you see when you were zapping around? Cas, how bad're we talking here?"

That takes the smile right off Castiel's face. He goes to turn away, in Rain Man mode, but Dean grabs him by the shoulder, won't let him get anywhere other than directly in the blast zone of his anger, which has finally reached its tipping point.

"Hey, you don't get to check out on me, man! I need you with me, so turn on the damn upstairs light. What'd you _see_, Cas?"

Looking much more grim, and way more like the Castiel Dean knows, Cas doesn't try to shoulder Dean's hand off of him. Instead of a straight answer, though, he only says, "Even with the sigils, our odds are slim, at best. I'm sorry."

Dean already figured as much, but still. Thank you, crappy-ass life, and your never-ending amount of suckage.

Castiel isn't finished, though. Something like actual - okay, maybe not _hope_, but close enough to it that Dean feels it kick up something in his _gut_ - lightens his words, and he holds their stare more intently. "You should know, though. There _are _allies here."

Allies. Dean nearly scoffs. What the hell kind of allies can they possibly have in freaking Purgatory?

"_Think_, Dean," Cas insists in his _could you please not be stupid for one second, that would be convenient_ voice. "Of all places, where would a fallen angel go?" Right away, Dean's mind starts rolling over Cas's words. _Balthazar. Anna._ "Or ghosts who chose to cling to Earth for far too long?" _Bobby._

Dean's hand drops, going from Castiel's shoulder to his own mouth, where he scrubs across it, his whole jaw tense. He likes the idea of having allies, hell, of familiar faces, but everything inside of him turns bitter at the thought of Bobby stuck down here.

"We," Castiel says, much more insistent now, "are not alone in this."

Bobby, they could count on. Dean knows that. One Linda Blair impression away from full-on poltergeisting or not, Bobby is still _Bobby_. But the angels? Dean trusts them about as much as he trusts anyone who isn't Sam these days. Which is to say, not at all.

"So, what," he says, biting it out, "we just send out an invite, then, all dick angels who've screwed us over, RSVP to the nearest cave?" This time, he does scoff.

Castiel narrows his eyes at him, sussing out who the hell knows what, but it makes Dean feel exposed and see-through. He holds Castiel's stare, just to prove that whatever Cas is doing, or looking for, it ain't working. Then Cas says, "They will help." Which gets amended some two seconds later into a less confident, "Some will help. Probably."

Yeah, all very convincing. Dean is more willing to bet they'd be facing pissed off angels holding grudges way sooner than harp-playing saints looking to lend a helping hand.

And because Castiel is still a dick sometimes, basketcase or not, he says, "Besides, Sam will find a way to retrieve us soon enough."

Of course the bastard would bring up his brother, reminding Dean that Sam, for all he knows, is somewhere up there in the real world in need of his own help. Maybe even hurt.

Castiel moves in even closer, so close it's like being thrust through a time-suck back to the days when Castiel used to all but share Dean's air. "We will _all_be okay," he insists, slow and meaningful, meaning them two, yeah, but also Sam. Mostly Sam.

Dean holds his stare, swallowing past a sudden lump in his throat. But just as quick as Dean's trust in the guy starts to build into something of actual substance, Castiel slips back. In steps, and crazy.

"Of course," he continues blithely, averting his gaze, and the difference in this Castiel and who Castiel had been just two seconds ago is so stark and so rattling, it forces reality back on Dean, where just outside a swarm of every bad damn thing on this plane wants to eat them for dinner is waiting. "That's assuming my Enochian is as fluent as it used to be, and those sigils hold far longer than previous devil traps I've managed." Ended, too, with a guilty yet fondly nostalgic look thrown Dean's way, like without it Dean might've missed the callback to Alastair.

That doesn't exactly lighten Dean's concern. He grits his teeth.

"Awesome," he manages.

"Anyway, I guess the only thing left to do is wait and see. I'll take first watch," Castiel says, getting himself comfortable against a boulder, making sure he faces the entrance of the cave. With some amusement, he adds, "and second, and third, and fourth-" and when Dean is just staring at him, silently asking what the hell's wrong with him, Castiel gives him that lopsided grin of flower-fondling, bee-watching crazy and says, "Except for the slight reprieve of a coma, I'm still the same old Castiel, still unable to sleep." It's wrong how much ironic humor Cas is putting into those words. Wrong, too, that Castiel just expects Dean to, what? Curl up against a nice rock and catch some Z's?

But even as he thinks that, and fights against it, a bone-tired feeling comes over him. He's exhausted. Hell, he's been running on three hours sleep this past week, and that's before the special vacation to Hell's fugly step-cousin; fatigue hits him like a hammer.

Instead of giving in, though - because screw that, and screw Castiel - Dean lowers himself until he's up against his own comfy boulder, facing Cas. Castiel's grin only grows at that, like he's acknowledging this silent pissing match between them and finds it to be downright adorable. Dick.

The rock he chooses digs into Dean's spine and the hardness of the cave floor already has his joints aching in a way that will make any kind of spontaneous activity a bitch, but even so, he doesn't budge. Just keeps his trap shut and his eyes open and proves his own damn point - being, he doesn't need sleep, he doesn't need mollycoddling, and he sure as hell doesn't need to be trapped in goddamned Purgatory.

There are scratching noises at the mouth of the cave he's ignoring, too, sounds that make it seem like there are more than a few demons out there braver than the others, trying to play chicken with Castiel's marks. See how far they can get in. See if the wards take. And beneath that, like a constant drone, he swears he can hear his name being called, over and over, playful and teasing and full of promises that Dean has a world of pain coming to him, and soon.

Last thing he sees before sleep overcomes him is Castiel, who keeps his eyes on Dean with a quiet pledge of protection.

* * *

Dean comes to with a shout. A muffled shout, to be exact, because there is a hand over his mouth, there is a freaking hand over his freaking mouth, and Castiel was supposed to be -

"_Dean_," Castiel says, so low Dean hears it rattle inside his head more than anything.

Just barely, the hand over Dean's mouth lets up, so it's less like a forceful attempt to keep him quiet and more like a hesitant touch of reassurance.

Dean looks up, straight into Castiel's eyes, because it's Cas kneeling over him, one palm flat against Dean's mouth, the other hand forming a gesture to be silent against his own lips. That's when Dean hears rustling noises that means something has entered the cave. As in, got past the sigils that were supposed to shield them.

Dean's eyes widen, but Castiel only emphasizes his request for silence. Slowly, and carefully, Castiel removes his hand off of Dean, only to slide it down to Dean's shoulders, where he helps grip him up and into a half-sitting, half-leaning position. Cas, Dean can tell by the tensed up way he feels against him, is ready to fly them the hell out of there should it come to that.

"Yoo-hoo," comes a voice that at first alarms Dean for how out-of-nowhere it is, then blasts him with familiarity.

All at once, Castiel lets go of Dean and stands up, making Dean wobble with the sudden lack of weight he'd been propped against.

"Gabriel," Castiel greets, way more warmth there than caution.

"So, the gossip rag's true." Gabriel's smirking, that much Dean can see, though little else. "Dean and Cas, honeymooning in Purgatory." The asshole practically _coos_it. Suddenly Dean is fully alert, pushing up off the ground to stand beside Cas. Maybe his BFF angel is all for a friendly welcoming, but Dean isn't about to forget that Gabriel is the same freak that fucked him and his brother over on more than one occasion, and liked it.

"We appear to be… trapped," Cas tells him, glancing briefly Dean's way. Dean can't tell if it's embarrassment or guilt Cas hits him with, but either way, he doesn't care for it.

Gabriel whistles, all _check out the brains on that one_. He turns in a circle, then, taking in what's basically been Dean and Castiel's hidey-hole. It feels, almost, as if their masculinity is being called out, albeit in a subtle, dickish manner. "Tough break, kids." Gabriel's eyes land on something on the wall opposite them, and hold. "Can't say I actually care, though. You know, chronic, aching grudge and all."

It's the sigils he's staring at, Dean realizes, as Gabriel licks his finger and goes to make one of those fun smudges that turn wards pretty damn useless.

"Son of a-" Dean starts, already bolting forward to intercept, but a breeze beside him means Castiel beats him to the punch.

Castiel pops up between Gabriel and the cave wall, just before Gabriel can screw them over. Which only serves to amuse him. Gabriel slides his hand through his hair, like slicking back some loose curls had been his intention all along and aren't Dean and Castiel just a couple of adorable, overly-paranoid pieces of work?

"Wow," he says through a loud exhale, "aren't we protective? I mean, I get it. I do. That thing disappears, you two become... what's a more poetic way to say _Hell's chew toys_?"

That, Dean thinks, is exactly why he knows not to trust the angels. They're all insensitive pricks, every last one of them.

"Oh, Dean," Gabriel tsks. "Puffy Dean. Mr. Macho! Look at you, predictable as ever. Still think you're a hotshot, even down here. Newsflash," he snarls, in a voice that carries a sudden enough venom that Castiel stirs, going from mildly passive to ready to attack, "you're our bitch now."

But just as quick, humor takes over, and Gabriel swings back around to Castiel. "And you," he says, teasing lilt and all, "are just as leashed as ever. Good dog," he taunts, which makes Dean mirror Castiel's earlier movement of protectively stepping forward.

"Yeesh," Gabriel says, noticing. "Touchy." He starts to circle around the cave, inspecting some speck of dirt here, stopping to kick at rubble there. "Glad to see that super healthy relationship of yours has survived, what's it been now? How many _multiple_, time-consuming deaths have you gone through for the Winchesters el dos, Cas? Bet Deano here knows. I bet he's just _sooo _grateful. Aren't you, buddy?"

Dean feels his fist grow heavy, which means he's straight up ready to sock the bastard, but Cas cuts in.

"_Enough_," he says, with just enough conviction that Gabriel - well, he doesn't stop looking like a smug jerk, but he does quit feeling up their cave. "If you're not here for assistance, what is it you're after, Gabriel?"

Gabriel smirks, fakely sweet. "_Ouch_. Who said I wasn't helping?"

At that, Castiel exchanges a confused look with Dean.

Gabriel rolls his eyes. "Christ, spare me the romantic glances. Look, morons, I know you haven't left the sweetheart suite since the flight in, but down here it's a dog-eat-dog world. Literally. It's freaking _The Human Centipede_, and if you think that was just some crappy movie made by a couple of sociopaths, wait until you see the real thing. And you _will _see the real thing."

"Great," Dean bites out. "I always wanted a sequel, so." The implication being: take your scare tactics and shove them up your ass.

Gabriel's smile turns cold. "See, that's the Dean I like so much. All that _swagger_ and _bravado_ kicking around. You know how good that's going to taste down here? How _juicy_? Maybe 'frothy''s a better word."

Castiel moves, a threat in that action like some serious smiting is about to go down, but Gabriel just gives them both a cloying smile, hands tossed back in a show of mock surrender. "Heel, boy."

"Hey, you want to be the first trophy I hang on the wall, that's fine with me," Dean starts, but Gabriel makes some annoyed noises in the back of his throat, stopping Dean short.

"Really, you think that's going to work here? We're in _PURGATORY_, Dean. You're going to, what? Well, yeah, okay, I guess you could always stare all soulfully at me with those big, beautiful eyes of yours. Handsome me to death! I hear that works on angels. Right, Cas?"

Dean's jaw is aching, that's how hard he has it clenched. Even Cas looks fed up, which is saying something seeing how Castiel-of-late never seems to be able to contort his facial muscles beyond _faintly distressed_.

Gabriel, though, gives one last spin around the room, hands in his pockets. "Hey," he says, and then he just _stops_, facing Dean and Castiel both. "Here's a riddle. Where do angels go after a couple of _dicks _send them on a suicide mission?"

And then he's gone, whooshed out of there by way of angel wings.

"Son of a _bitch_," Dean snaps, loud enough to echo, and to draw the attention of the beasties outside, who growl and mewl and whine in their desire to get to meal time already.

* * *

"Jesus, Cas, would you freaking stop staring," Dean bites out when it's been going on ten full minutes and Castiel hasn't let up on that creepy stalker stare of his, even though Dean is lying on the ground, trying for sleep again. He opens his eyes and, yeah, as completely expected, Castiel meets his gaze full-on. The look of defeat he greets him with, though, has Dean lifting up on one elbow, resigned as the gesture is.

"What?" he demands, about as sensitive as he's going to get right now, or ever.

Castiel's gaze flicks down and away. So, this is one of _those _conversations then. You know, the super fun kind that make Dean want to emotionally retreat. "We're in what you would call a 'no-win' situation, correct?"

That's it? That's Cas's big life crisis? Dean snorts, letting himself sink back down, rubble bed and all. He stares up at the cave's low-hanging ceiling. "Dude, we're in friggin' _Purgatory_. Kinda just stating the obvious now."

"I believed," Castiel starts, and then he stops, only to change that to, "I had hoped we'd find a way out by now."

What, after one day? Come on. Guess that's what happens when your default measure of time isn't by way of pocket watch or rock shadow, but whatever homosomething-or-other has sprung up on the evolutionary chart.

To be fair, though, Dean can't tell if they've been here for ten hours, or ten days. Time feels sluggish. It might not even be linear, for all he knows.

"Yeah, well, faith's a bitch. Not your fault."

Castiel isn't done with the guilt, though, or the backtrack through emotional territory. "I should have done something sooner," he admits, strained, and they're not talking cave decor here. "_Helped_."

And Dean just says, "Yeah, you should've," because Castiel freaking _should have_. No use denying it, not when they both know it's true.

"I... misjudged my ability to detach," he says, sounding miserable. "I thought, after fixing Sam, that my actions would be absolved, that I would finally feel..." A frustrated, road-blocked noise rattles out of Cas, like whatever he wants to say, it's too big to get out.

"Vindicated," Dean fills in for him, soft. He knows the feeling. Damn does he know, firsthand too.

"And instead," Cas says, after that hangs there heavy between them, "all that's amassed is... more blame."

Dean sighs, still staring up at the top of the cave. Truth is, he's mostly forgiven Castiel already. Not for the Sam part of it. Hell, he'll probably still feel residual anger over that until he's buried six feet under and too dead to care, but that's just the way things go when it comes to someone breaking his brother. But the betrayal he once felt as heavy as a second skin, it's eased up since finding out Castiel was alive and kicking again. Kind of hard to hate the guy, after all, after he went and took a bullet of crazy for the team.

"I once promised to redeem myself to you," Castiel tells him once the silence stretches on, and it's with the kind of conviction and sworn loyalty that could've gutted Dean, if he let it. _Has _gutted him, before. "I still intend to, Dean."

Dean sighs again, heavier. He hates the touchy-feely emotions crap, always has. Even so, he rolls back over so that he can make awkward eye contact with Castiel, at least. Give him that much. "Quit feeling sorry for yourself, alright? I mean it, you've done enough." He puts that out there, though it's curt, half-assed. Not that it isn't genuine. Yeah, no way's Dean going to sit here and bare his soul though.

"Dean..." Cas says, admonishing.

"_Purgatory_, Cas," Dean says, meaning: perspective, man. That, and: dude got dragged down to the mother of all living nightmares with Dean. He atoned enough. Hell, he was over-atoning now, truth be told.

Cas still looks like he's brooding, but not quite as much as before, which is something.

"Hey," Dean says, just to fill up the quiet that settles, "how long 'til I start chomping on your meaty parts, you think?"

Cas tilts his head in that _I don't understand your dumb mortal reference _way of his.

"Food?" Dean clarifies. "I mean, assuming I can't find me some decent enough pie down here. I'm betting _not_."

Castiel murmurs, "I hadn't thought about it," sounding genuinely fretful, which gets Dean's head lolling to the side again.

"Hey, we'll figure it out," he tells him. He isn't even half-convinced of that himself. Been selling lies since the age of four, though. Kinda gone pro at it by now.

"Or die trying," Castiel gives back, grim.

Dean huffs out a laugh. Has to. That sounded like the old Castiel. Doom-and-gloom and not much fun. "Or die trying," he agrees, and him and Castiel, they share a small brothers-in-arm smile that makes the moment turn downright sentimental, but for once, Dean is way too lulled to care.

* * *

Light trickles into the cave. Faint as hell, but it's definitely there.

"Cas," Dean calls out on a low hiss. Cas is off down the cave, on a pointless journey to try and sniff out some food. He offered to blink out of there and scrounge up something edible, but Dean hadn't wanted to risk it. Maybe he's just being a clingy bastard, but separating feels dangerous. Besides, he still hasn't shook that feeling of abandonment from earlier, when Cas had left him alone without so much as a farewell '_BRB, don't die_.'

"Hey," he shouts on a whisper again, more hoarse this time. "Cas!"

Castiel comes up from behind. Dean doesn't even have to explain what the fuss is about, because Castiel is already staring out the cave, serious-looking, as perplexed and wary over the light as Dean is.

"That's probably a good thing," Dean ventures. "Right? I mean. _Morning_. Bet that's monster curfew."

Castiel's whole forehead furrows. "Or it's a trick," he notes, full of doubt, and that - no, you know what, screw that, okay, Dean has had it up to _here_with Purgatory and its related shittiness. Screw it.

"Or this cave's a trick, or, hell," he snaps, and he's turning on Castiel, crowding Cas's space, still barking out, "maybe _you're _a trick, man, what do I know."

Cas holds his own, though his features do pinch into something more like concern now, like, hey, here it is, Dean's mental breakdown, right on schedule. "Dean-"

"I'm not going to just sit around with my thumb up my ass, waiting on, _who even knows_! Sam? Divine intervention?" He's breathing hard by the end of that, emotions dialed way up to nine.

"And I'm not suggesting you do," Cas gives back, calm as ever, like he's some kind of zen master. "I'm only advising we approach with caution."

Which is a solid recommendation, actually. It doesn't ease up Dean's annoyance any, and for a solid beat he wonders how the hell he got into this mess in the first place, if he must have some kinda cosmic KICK ME sign taped to his forehead, or _what_, but Cas working logic on him does knock the wind right out of his sails.

"Fine," he allows, with a hard, almost resentful edge, just because.

When he looks again, Dean can't see any glowing eyes out there. Doesn't mean they aren't being watched, obviously, but ignorance is a hell of a useful thing. "So," he says.

Castiel copies Dean's stance, and his stare, only way more stern of course. "So," he echoes gravely.

There isn't a sun. Not one that Dean can see, anyway. More like... glowyness, like the whole place has gone foggy beneath the beam of headlights. And stretched out in front of them, wide enough and deep enough that Dean knows if they set out into it, it will be one hell of a serious trek, is a thick, dense forest, housing who knows what.

With a here-goes-anything breath, Dean decides to hell with it. He steps out, past the sigils. "Ready or not," he murmurs, appreciating the chance to be melodramatic. He half-expects to be insta-flambeed that first breach, and squeezes his eyes shut against it, but nothing happens. Not a damn thing. It's kind of anticlimactic, actually.

Wearing a smile, because, hey, still alive, he throws back at Castiel a nearly cheerful, "Let's go."

As they enter the forest, Castiel stays close enough that, were they anywhere else, Dean probably would've grumbled about the whole personal space issue again, but he doesn't address it, not here. Not when Castiel's weight against him is a firm and constant anchor that keeps him moving forward. Fact is, first sign of trouble, he knows Castiel will zap them out of here. It's a feeling of security, and if the tradeoff is Cas hovering a little too close for comfort, no contest, he'll take it.

Once they make it a decent ways in without being slaughtered, Castiel stops Dean with a curious hand at his elbow. He squats down to sift through a wet, browning clump of leaves stained dark. Dean's about to comment on how Castiel's freaky Mother Earth thing really isn't a luxury they have time for when Castiel lifts up to show him what it is exactly that got his attention: dirt-covered entrails.

"Nice," Dean quips. His stomach rolls in protest. He hasn't eaten in - yeah, Dean preferred not to think about that, because, jesus, talk about things that suck - but Cas and his handful of long, ropey-looking insides makes it so he is a-okay with that, actually.

Castiel squints at the nastiness in his hand, like there's some freaky CSI mojo going on inside his head. "Most likely this is werewolf," is his best guess.

Dean snorts. "That's just great."

Gently, Cas places it back where he found it, with a regard and reverence Dean finds disturbing. He might've harassed Cas about it, too, but all of a sudden something lightning fast zips past his line of sight.

He says, low and out the side of his mouth, "Cas..." and means by it, _get the hell up_. Cas catches the tone. He gets to his feet, careful and steady and restrained, like any sudden movement means certain death.

Dean holds his breath and waits, feeling the itch of an anticipated attack that ants its way through his entire body. Cas is a solid and reassuring presence beside him.

After minutes of nothing, with his every muscle wound tight and alert, he hopes, "False alarm?" There are only far-off noises now, too distant to be of any real concern.

"We need to be more vigilant," Castiel recommends, which is all the agreement Dean gets on the subject.

"Whatever," he snarks, loosening up some. "Wasn't me groping werewolf goop."

Cas frowns his serious-faced frown at him, like he can't figure out whether Dean's tone is teasing or not but he thinks it's probably easier to go ahead and clarify anyway. "I only wanted to establish what sort of enemies we're up against."

Dean snorts, deciding he'll let it drop, except for how he can't help blowing out under his breath, "Hope you wash that hand," in a way that is purposely needling. Cas just makes an exasperated noise, all huffy, soldiering forward without his cuddle-buddy at his side.

"I suggest we keep moving, unless you'd like adding _your _'goop' to the collection." Air quotes. God help him, air quotes in Purgatory. Nice to know some things remain a constant even while the world's gone to shit, even if that something is a socially retarded angel.

* * *

"What do you think?"

That's what Dean aims at Castiel, in regards to what might be the world's most toxic-looking batch of berries. They're growing along a vine that wraps all the way up this monster-looking tree, all thorny and bright, splotchy yellow. Deathish, basically, and not even subtle about it. Dean bets they're pure poison.

Cas tilts his head at them. All the better to scrutinize their pure, honest intent. "I... don't know," he muses out thoughtfully, like he's honest to god trying to weed out any malice.

Dean's just hungry enough that he might not care. Death by berry. Pretty crappy way to go, all things considered, but he figures it beats death by starvation. And because Castiel isn't saying anything else, and because now he just looks like he's having a one-sided stare-off with the things, Dean sighs and decides, simply, to hell with it. He's hungry, man. At least he'll croak on a full stomach.

Cas, though, bats Dean's hand away when he makes that first grab for one.

There are six legitimately loaded seconds of silence that pass, where Dean looks at Cas and Cas looks at Dean and neither seems to know what the hell just happened before Dean, with some exaggeration, gestures using his entire upper body and goes, "_Dude_." Because, seriously, _what the hell_.

"I don't know," Cas says back, fast, question mark at the end of it and everything like he's just as weirded out by the parental smacking as Dean is.

Dean glares until Castiel looks properly shamed. Only, when he goes reaching for try number two, Castiel is getting his swat on for a second time, even though Dean's whole vibe pretty much warns against it.

Bewildered by his own actions, Cas says, "Dean, I don't know," before Dean can say anything to that, like announce _I will full-on fight you_ or _FYI, you hit like a little bitch_. But he's a smart man, Dean is, and while Castiel might be having trouble putting human words to his very non-celestial reaction, Dean knows what gut instinct is. Knows Cas must be feeling it. He sighs all over again, tilting his head back with his eyes pinched shut so that whatever passes for a sun around here makes these shadowy splotches of light appear at his lids, because this is just friggin' great.

"Fine," he grounds out, once his moment of resigned annoyance passes, "plan B, then."

Castiel's looking apologetic, like he assumes Dean probably lays the blame of toxic berries on his shoulders, but still he feels the need to logically point out, "We don't have a plan B."

"See, that's what I like about you, Cas. All that optimism."

Castiel attempts to filter out the ratio of bullshit/truth in that. It's likely he catches the sarcasm first, though, because he goes right back to studying the berries. "My senses are-"

"Tingling, yeah. I get it. Can't eat crap in Purgatory. What else is new."

Cas gives that a long moment of consideration. And then, like he's not even sure he means it even while he's saying it, he goes, "Well, perhaps you could attempt it." Which just makes Dean stare and ineloquently sputter some, because, hello, hand smacking. Wasn't that a big ol' beware-a-painful-death-awaits implication?

"I'm sure I could heal you," Cas offers supportively next, but hesitantly, as if Dean's death is already implied but he's not quite sure of the healing mojo he's working with, and isn't that a big ol' morale booster. "Maybe," gets awkwardly tacked on, as a last minute disclaimer.

It's enough, though. Dean's that hungry.

"Fine," he says, and then adds with an accompanied pointed finger, "You better fix me," and damn well means it.

Cas gives him a tight nod.

When Dean plucks one of the easier to reach berries off the vine, making sure to avoid a prick from the thorns, the thing freaking coils back and, swear to god, hisses at him.

Castiel warns, "Dean..." like maybe he's rethinking being an enabler.

Dean only smirks at him, devil-may-care, breaking off the pointy pieces like they're candy. He pops the whole thing in his mouth before his brain can talk his stomach out of it. Just like that first step out of the cave, Dean expects the worst, pessimist that he habitually is. He expects, specifically, to be sizzled from the inside out, expects a melting esophagus and everything gone liquidy bad, but instead there's only a squirt of warm goo and then a foul, bitter taste, like plant-flavored Gushers.

After an anticipatory beat, Castiel raises two questioning eyebrows. "Well?"

Dean chews. Through the mouthful, he manages quite seriously, "I'd rather be dead." Bits of the berry are mashed up against the roof of his mouth, gritty and nasty, but his stomach's practically pitching itself upwards with grabby-hands, wanting more.

When Castiel turns back to the berries, the dude is smiling, or near it, but it's wiped clean the next instant while he shoves two, three, a whole _handful _of berries at Dean.

* * *

It's pretty much a given, because Purgatory sucks ass: the berries come back up.

Dean and Cas have barely even started on their way again when Dean first feels that dry-throated, woozy pitch of his internal contents being hoisted upwards, and then he's bent with the full weight of his body against the nearest tree, heaving it all back up again.

Cas hovers uncertainly nearby, as if he has no context to understand what's happening. Vaguely Dean thinks, yeah. Maybe. He tries to run through their history, see if he's ever given Cas this same show before, but nothing's flashing up as familiar, so probably not. Lucky bastard.

"Cas," he says on the third round through, down now to nothing but the liquid stuff, the really shitty stuff, "get-" More comes up, then, and that makes Cas turn downright fretful, which is honestly all Dean needs right now. Crazy Cas and vomit. Just awesome. "Water," he manages to croak afterward.

Cas gives him some hardcore remorseful eyes, because, right. Purgatory. Someone down here really screwed the pooch when they decided basic utilities weren't a necessity.

Dean slides his weight down the tree, weak with post-vomit Olympics. There is a noise in the woods behind him, this pitter-patter of swiftly moving footsteps he hears then ignores.

"I wouldn't eat those same berries again if I were you," Cas suggests with some discomfort, still hanging awkwardly close by, like he's forgotten what it means to not be an asshole in situations of sympathy.

"You think?" Dean quips back, eyes closing. His stomach cramps up painfully, nose and throat both burning too.

The footsteps turn into sounds of scurrying. Dean can tell, without looking, that they've attracted Cas's attention, because the whole air has gone ice cold around them, like it always seems to when Castiel's in his Angel-of-the-Lord, thou-shall-be-smited mode.

"Dean..." Cas starts, trailing off, reluctant to put the rest of it into words. That is, that the timing really blows, and even though Dean just hacked up his organs, not to mention every damn last little thing he'd had soaking up his hunger, now it's monster-fighting time. Freaking figures.

Slow, Dean pushes up off the tree, Cas suddenly there and helping. Wounded ego or pride or whatever, but Dean goes to jerk his arm out of Cas's grip, starts to grumble that he can do it himself, thank you, and besides, where the hell was Cas when the fun stuff was coming up, except whatever's hunted them down lets out this otherworldly yowl that makes every hair on Dean's body stand on end and there are suddenly other things to bitch about.

Dean murmurs, voice gone scratchy from all the retching, "Probably not a welcome wagon."

"It's unlikely," Castiel agrees with his usual lack of humor.

"So," Dean starts, and means to say something inspiring after, like, 'hey, try not to get killed-' or 'it would really suck if you left me alone out here, so, you know, stay alive, man-' but Cas forcefully shoulders him so that he falls back against the trunk of the next tree over, one that's decked out in tall ass shrubbery.

"What the h-" he starts, but Cas cuts that off too.

"_Stay_, Dean. Quietly."

"Cas—"

"_Be quiet_," he repeats, the attached sentiment of _you idiot _loud and clear.

Dean listens that time, shuts right up, and holds Castiel's stare. It's similar to a look he all of a sudden remembers Cas wearing in the Green Room, that time way the hell back when, when everything changed. It meant, then,_ rebellion_, and _I'm doing this for you, Dean_ and a shitload of other things, only half of which Castiel is _Castiel _enough to vow back this time.

But he gives it, and then he's gone, whirling away from Dean with his trenchcoat flapping up like a dramatic son of a bitch, and Dean can only stand back, can only watch with his hand gripping at his still sore and tumbling stomach as Castiel draws out the monster of the moment.

Whatever it is, Dean doesn't have a name for it. It comes out on four lanky legs, hunched over and somehow still nearly the same height as Cas, but when it sees what it's dealing with - and that's Castiel, drawn up tall as Jimmy Novak's body allows, angel sword pulled out from whatever netherworld Castiel keeps it tucked at when not in use - it rises up on its hind legs with something like actual, amused intent. Castiel doesn't flinch, but Dean does that for him, adrenaline replacing the sour taste in his mouth.

The thing, fugly ass freak that it is, lets out this wheezing, hacking noise that sounds like a laugh, like it's got it in the bag here, like Cas has handed himself over on a silver platter, but Cas isn't about to go down that easy. He hangs back and waits, goads the thing with a stony non-reaction, all the while standing loose and battle-ready.

That's when Dean hears this voice that curls right into his ear from who the fuck knows where.

It goes, "_Winchester_," mean and playful, unfurling inside him, everywhere and nowhere all at once. For a second, Dean thinks he's imagining it, that maybe it's some kind of hallucinatory side-effect of poison berries, but then it happens again, louder.

"Winchester," the voice says, more crooning this time. It vibrates in his freaking _bones_.

Dean yanks against the tree, pulls himself around with bark splintering into his palms. There's nothing, though, not behind him, not beside him.

"Dean," it laughs.

"Alright," he demands, "who the hell's there?" and thank you finely honed craft of bullshitting, because it sounds way more menacing than he actually feels. He feels, FYI, about as green as he'd been at the ripe age of six, one of the first times he ever handled a weapon - that was an experience Dean liked to keep close, because it's one of those rare memories that included his dad, but it's also one better left forgotten, on account of how he nearly blew all five fingers of his father's trigger hand off. Good times.

"Dean Winchester," comes the same playful taunt, closer this time, coming in like flipped channels on a TV that gets crap reception. And then he hears it go, clear as day, "_Sam_," only it's calculated and knowing, and everything inside of Dean lights up fast and bright, this flare of anger and another wave of sickness and near knee-buckling worry.

Except then Cas shouts, "Dean!" and Dean realizes that whatever crappy excuse for a hideout he'd had isn't cutting it anymore, realizes that he has the attention of Cas's monster now, too, that he's been drawn out by - yeah, how sane does _voices _sound?

When it sees Dean, the monster's lips curl into a sick grin, kinky bastard that it must be. It slinks over on long ass legs, three quick steps towards him, cutting right past Cas with ease. Cas hurls himself toward it, weapon first, but it's got that hyper-speed thing working for it, son of a freaking bitch, so Cas is cutting his sword through air.

The thing wheezes Dean's name in some broken language once it's up close, but it's not what, or who, he heard before. Same song, different verse.

This new view, with Dean's neck cranked back so he can stare all the ways up at it, comes with an accompanied sensory overload. Its smell is worse than what Dean had heaved up earlier, like death and mold and wet fur, all rolled into one perfume. Tendrils of drool hang off its jaw, which, by the way, is housing some serious-looking chompers.

"Man, deodorant," Dean hurls out first, staying close to the tree, keeping himself half-shrouded by big, leafy plants.

The whatever-the-hell-it-is swipes angrily in front of itself, meaning to attack but missing. Several tree branches tear loose above Dean's head, though, dropping like they're nothing but pretzel sticks snapped in two.

"Or therapy," Dean snarks next. "I'm thinking lots and lots of therapy. Get you feeling happy again."

Out of the corner of his eye - not that he's going to look, because he's not actually new at this, thank you - Dean can see Castiel creeping up, glowy angel sword ready for some righteous vengeance.

"'Course," he goes on with the intent to distract, "maybe that _is _your happy face. Kinda hard to tell under all that fug."

Dean's expecting to provoke it into violent-mode, which he does, only it halts halfway through that attack to pitch forward onto its two front legs, kicking back with its rear ones. It lands a solid blow against Cas, hitting him square in the chest.

Dean yells out, "Cas!" as Castiel goes sprawling backwards, hurled back a good fifteen feet until he comes skidding to a stop, curling in on himself.

The thing in front of Dean forces its mouth into the shape of a smile again, and _laughs_.

Dean's whole face sets into a glower. He doesn't have a weapon on him, but he will fight this monster with nothing but his bare fists, he will take this reject bitch _down_-

All of a sudden, it jerks back onto its hind legs, growing gigantic again, only its writhing and shrieking and snarling, and through all of that Dean can see Castiel on the other side with his sword buried hilt-deep into monster-spine.

Finally, with one last jerk, and one last gargled exhale, it sinks to the ground, crumpling into this massive, foul-smelling, definitely dead heap. Cas yanks his sword back out, breathing hard. There's a thin line of blood and sweat trickling down the left side of his face.

"Dude," Dean says, and that's it, that's all he's got.

Cas looks up from the thing he's slayed, until he meets Dean's wide, blown open stare. He's all Castiel again, all forlorn soldier with the bulk of Heaven riding on his shoulders, that same look of distracted like he's got his attention split between places Dean's brain can't even fathom.

Dean tries going, "Cas," but Cas's sword slinks back to the nowhere and _everywhere _it stays stashed, and Cas starts striding away, a new determination to him now.

"We need to move. It isn't safe here," he calls without turning back.

Dean's gaze slips from Castiel's retreating form, down to what lies dead in front of him, more reek now that it's zapped for good than when it was alive. When he pushes away to follow, his stomach protests his mobility, tossing around inside of him like those green plastic soldiers Sam used to throw in the drier at laundromats when he was a kid, just to watch them melt.

* * *

They make it back to the cave without any other incidents, save Dean's second round of stomach emptying, which Cas reacts to with a way more resolute set of his shoulders. No more squeamish angel. It must mean he's back to being Cas again, the whole damn way. Goody for Dean.

Once they're inside, Dean goes slack against a boulder, the same one he spent the night getting cozy with. It's cold where Dean's burning up now, hot with a fever, and he thinks, deliriously, but still pretty pointedly, that he is going to get better, and then he is going to go knife that damn poison tree down, cut it so its roots are showing, and then he is going to take a leak all over it, several times over.

There's a cool hand on his forehead, then, just this light press of a palm against his bare skin. Cas.

"How many berries did you ingest, Dean?" he asks, swimming in and out of focus. Dean thinks about telling Castiel that this, the food poison, is all his fault, and he hopes that settles nicely on his new stinkin' angel conscience, but it's too many words, too much effort.

"Two," is his best answer, and he tries not to notice the way it slurs, what that means.

Castiel's hand slips to Dean's shoulder. He gives it a squeeze. Not comfort, though, this is _stay the hell with me, you dumb ass_. "Is that all?" Yeah, okay. Says the guy who hasn't spent the better half of an hour spewing up grodiness.

"Ate the prickly parts too," he shoots back, and Castiel regards him with a look that is equal parts 'you're stupider than you look' and 'let me figure out a way to take on this pain for you.' It's that last part that makes Dean snort out a weak laugh and huff, "Joke. Bitch."

Cas frowns at the _bitch_, because, you know, dude would. That's not theirs. Dean misses Sam so hard in that moment, and so wholly, that tears prick at the corners of his eyes. But he refuses, flat out will _not_ lose it here, not over friggin' berries and not with Cas watching.

His grip on Dean loosens some, but still Castiel peers down at Dean like he is trying to gauge whether or not miracle-by-angel-touch is necessary. Who knows how long that goes on, but it feels infinite.

"Blink already," Dean snarks, and that – that one is theirs.

Castiel uses his other hand to touch two fingers to Dean's temple. "Rest," he orders, and then Dean's out cold.

* * *

When he finally stirs to, the first thing Dean notices is the taste of ass. Like something already dead crawled inside his mouth, then died again.

Groggy, and resigned to ass-mouth, he opens his eyes, only to be met with total darkness. And that makes his heart race right the hell up. Pansy reaction, but, hey. Woke up in a coffin once. Kind of not Dean's favorite feeling. He bolts upright, as much as he can before his body decides to send out reminders that he is getting over food poison from hell, almost literally.

"Dean?" Cas says, and Dean's eyes go straight to the source of the sound. The glow of his looney bin scrubs, more than anything, is what he sees first.

"Could've woke me," he says, going for barking, but it comes out all haggard and rough-sounding. You know what comes with ass-mouth? A whole hell of a lot of pain, actually. The roof of Dean's mouth down the entire length of his throat feels scorched and raw like he downed a couple rounds of bleach.

Cas only says, "You're still alive, in case you were wondering," and he, of course, nails the bark.

Dean figures he owes Castiel something - an apology, some gratitude - but he's never been the type to do so on someone else's terms. So, instead, he swings into a sitting position, until his back is up against his BFF the boulder. He's grunting by the end of that, which gives him a clue of how bad he must've got, and how screwed that still makes him. No food in Purgatory. No water. Can't mean anything but bad on top of bad.

"Here," Castiel says, and then he tosses something that lands with a wet-sounding thud at Dean's feet.

Yeah, no thanks to whatever that is. Not that he should blame Castiel for the berry incident, because it's not like that was a choice Cas made for him, but. Dean blames Castiel for the berry incident, point blank, screw logic, dude's totally at fault.

Castiel exhales noisily, then gets up and walks over to Dean. He's still got some fresh blood at his hairline, Dean notices once he's close enough, which means Dean couldn't have been out for too long. At least there's that. Silver lining to everything, right?

As Cas drops beside him, all up in his personal space, simply choosing to nestle up against Dean rather than, you know, keep some freaking decency between them, he reaches across Dean's legs and gathers what he'd thrown. It gets thrust into Dean's hand this time, warm and malleable, and Dean is thinking how very much he does not want this to be werewolf entrails, please and thank you, when Castiel huffs.

"It's honey, Dean."

Dean's head is clearly still feeling loopy, because at first that doesn't even make any kind of sense. Absurdly, the word _honey _rolls out of Castiel's mouth sounding more like a weird term of endearment, not any kind of real, actual thing that Dean can put an identity to.

Then Cas adds, "From the bees," and, alright, there you go, that makes sense. The bees. Dean remembers the bees. Dean also remembers Cas, his car, some strategically settled bees, and, uh, not a whole lot else, come to think of it.

Dean does not need to remember those bees.

"Thanks," he says, before he can think of anything better, and it's seriously only half a second after that that he does, in fact, think of something better, and that is, "Dude, honey?" with a sharp, dangerous edge of accusation in it.

Castiel's eyes narrow, just barely, picking up on that. "Yes."

"_Honey_," Dean repeats.

"Yes," Cas says back, totally with the squinting now, not getting it.

"You had _honey_, this whole time, and you never thought that might be the kind of crap you share?" Dean busts out with.

The squint goes poof, replaced with a look of contrition, but even that only lasts a second or two because Castiel is quick to get defensive. "Yes," he comes out with for a third damn time.

That is not what Dean wants to hear. Incredulous, he repeats, "_Yes_?" Then, "You could've said."

"Why? It hardly seemed of import-"

"Hardly seemed of-" Dean repeats disbelievingly, before scoffing. "You're kidding me, right? I ate poison _berries_, okay, starving out of my freaking gourd, and you've got _honey _this whole damn time!"

"That I intended to store until it was absolutely necessary-"

Dean pushes off the rock, is up on his feet faster than his recently emptied stomach cares for. That dead thing that crawled and then died again in his mouth? Yeah, make that death number three.

Cas slowly pushes to his feet as well, standing wearily in front of Dean, arms slack at his sides. Same ol' slouch he wore in those super fun days before he went all Godstiel on them, like maybe he thought the kicked angel look might work for him.

That just opens up something ugly inside of Dean, something in need of a good, cathartic release, and, hey, no time like _Purgatory_.

"Dean," Cas tries, but Dean is tired of this same song-and-dance they're trapped in, same kind he's battled out with Sammy before, where the logic is it's okay to betray so long as the intentions are on the godly side, right? So long as everyone meant well? Then, yeah, absolutely screw him over.

_No_.

"What else're you keeping secret, Cas?" That accusation is back, harder this time, and Dean sees the exact moment, the _second_, Cas starts catching on that this is about more than just honey. This is them, fucking finally. No crazy, no board games, no damn bees.

Cas grows stiffer, taller. He raises his head up and stares, resolute. "Nothing."

"Nothing," Dean echoes, and then laughs, mean and ugly, not buying that for a second. "Yeah, okay."

"Dean-"

"If this is the _try to understand _part, Cas, so help me."

Castiel stares back, confused, and then breaks out of it with a step towards Dean. "We have _eternity_ down here, Dean. I meant to make it last. _You_last."

Which sounds all nice and gift-wrapped, but means shit right now. "By keeping secrets?"

Castiel sighs, loud and frustrated - and human. "It wasn't a secret." And then, petty: "You never asked." Freaking semantics, are you serious?

"How would I even _know_-"

"Then is it really yours _to_ know?" Cas cuts in, and he means it, he _means _it, but as soon as it's out, his eyes grow wide and apologetic. "Dean—"

"Bite me," Dean says. He turns away - can't even look at the son of a bitch right now -– but Cas gets him by the shoulder, tugs him back around, and Dean acts on instinct, lets a fist fly.

Of course, that only gets him four split open knuckles, because it turns out Castiel's still got that whole face-of-steel thing going for him. Dean's mind skirts over memories of the last time he tried this, the whole epic ordeal of the Green Room, and that just makes him think of everything else, until he's pissed all over again. He knocks Cas's hand off his shoulder, and Cas only frowns, like Dean's being purposely obstinate.

"What would you have me do, Dean?" he demands, low, with something like anger, or defeat, simmering underneath. "Give all, and in return, you give nothing?"

Dean's not ready for that kind of protest, how it comes laced hard and heavy with Castiel's own personal sense of hurt. Cas is not the wronged one here, okay, he's _not._And yet, Dean's throat closes up like he's got something to be sorry for, and there's this jacked up feeling in his gut. Remorse, he thinks, tumbling around with all the other stuff.

"We're friends," Cas says, "then we're not." He moves until he's all but on top of Dean, and if Dean was ten kinds of pissed earlier, Cas is at twelve. "I'm forgiven, then I'm not. Which is it? You are the one who decides, of course. You are the _only _one who decides." And that's tangled up with a sarcasm meant to land, to bruise.

Cas moves forward until Dean is forced to take one, then two and three steps back, and that puts him against the cave wall.

"I can't say sorry," he goes on, "can't possibly redeem myself against the impossible—"

Fed up, Dean swipes his arms out where Cas has him blocked in. "_Try_, you son of a bitch," he says back -– pleads, if he is being one hundred percent honest here -– and Castiel just looks at him. Broken and bare.

Then there is the quiet rustle of wings and Dean's alone, feeling like he just had his breath punched out of him.

* * *

TBC.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes all of four minutes, and then Cas comes back, popping up at the opposite side of the cave.

Dean's moved to the center, hand fisted over his mouth, mind wheeling every last beat of those four minutes between Cas-insults and a fast rising panic he keeps having to stamp down and tell himself, over and over again, it's alright, it's fine, he's gotten out of a hell of a lot worse by himself before; it's a vacation for one now, no big deal.

There is a stubborn line in the set of Castiel's jaw when he returns, less like he desires to be elsewhere, only, surprise, this is all the shelter Purgatory's got going for it, and more like he one hundred percent is not in the mood to keep up the bitch-fest.

He holds out his hand in an invitation meant to hook Dean's attention, liquid dribbling from it. Down his wrist, big fat drops that _plunk_ audibly when they hit the cave floor.

Dean just shrugs real big in his shoulders, still reeling from Castiel's poof routine - second one since they got here, and maybe, too, Dean's wondering how long it's going to be before he stops taking that so _personal_ - and not quite willing to be Mr. Sociable right now.

Cas watches the rivulets that snake down his arm with intrigue, that same birdlike tilt of his head, the same alien focus, as Cas from yore. "Strange, isn't it. Even in the middle of so much chaos, there is still somehow tranquility."

"Yeah," Dean breathes out, short and discarding, with his eyes flaring wide. Frustration pools fast and rubberband tight in his chest. "Kinda makes you want to stay here forever, doesn't it?"

Castiel's eyes lift to Dean's. He's taken back by what he sees in them. By the pity there, like Cas maybe feels bad that Dean is too emotionally stunted to appreciate this particular piece of yoga mat, granola-eating, Yanni crap-sentiment of crap-enlightenment. But there's disappointment, too, like Cas came back expecting, what? Them to braid each other's hair, weave a crown of freaking flowers, spew zen, life lesson garbage, maybe hum a little Don McLean?

Back to stoic, Cas tilts his hand so the water pours out. And that's what it is, it's _water_, and Dean's eyes go big with a sudden realization.

"How?" he asks, the one word scrambling up out of him, shaky with disbelief and so, so damned hopeful and grateful. Because now that he's seeing it, his gut's aching with want. His throat is so far beyond parched at this point, it's like he's been swallowing rocks for kicks.

Castiel does his narrow-eyed gazing thing, still as a freaking scarecrow, before deeming Dean's question worthy of an answer, but even then he doesn't so much _answer_ as step forward, two fingers poised for teleportation-mojo time.

Dean rears his head back instinctively - for once it would be awesome to have Cas choose the scenic route instead of the hurtle-through-time-and-space one - but then there's that press of skin on skin, a gust of wind that wraps around him from all directions, and just as Dean's opening his mouth to complain about how people usually get consent about these sort of things first, he's stumbling over a suddenly solid ground somewhere that is not the inside of their cave.

He does get out the, "_Cas_," this time, barking it like the do-not-do-that-you-pushy-asshole lecture is already at the tip of his tongue, but then he sees that Cas has brought him to the water and the words die somewhere in the back of his throat.

Dean stares. It looks like, and here he realizes how friggin' tiny his brain's capacity for imagination must be, but it looks like a _lake_. Like a real, honest-to-God, Earthy kind of lake, fish and high levels of pollution possibly included.

Without taking his eyes off of the small ripples of water that lap at a grassy shore, he asks the dumbest question possible: "Is it real?"

"As you or I," Cas gives back, stilted, vague as hell.

They're only ten, maybe fifteen feet from the water's edge, and standing that close, Dean swears his mouth has never felt drier.

When Dean takes a step forward, because what the hell is he just standing around gawking for, Castiel lays out a barricading arm. It doesn't actually touch Dean, since for once Cas is standing far enough away that there's a decent, normal amount of space between them, but the message comes through loud and clear.

Castiel doesn't lower his arm, only angles himself out in front of Dean so that Dean _has_ to stare back at him.

"Dean," he starts, then grinds to a halt, like he's picking his words out carefully, like they are important and meant to be listened to. He must be remembering the berries, because he says, "There's no way of knowing if this water functions as it would in the real world."

Dean tries hard not to put a voice to the groan he feels sitting at the back of his throat. Still, though. "Water, Cas. As in, kinda need it to survive. Who cares how it functions?"

Cas says, "You could become ill again," and it's deliberate, measured.

"Or, hey, I could die," Dean shoots back, this pleasant chirp, and he thinks he pretty much won the argument with that one.

Castiel lets up on the blocking, but he doesn't step back or move out of the way any. Instead he drops his gaze to the ground, forehead creasing. When he looks up at Dean again, it's with the inability to grasp Dean's unnecessary suicidal tendencies. "Why risk it? Why, when you already ate those berries and were made only to regret it? You weren't fortified, Dean. What is the value of false sustenance?"

He really doesn't want to explain it to Castiel, because if he has to in the first place, it's just not worth it. The guy should know by now, and if he doesn't, tough luck. He's never going to get it. More, though, what was the point of dragging him all the way out here for nothing?

Dean shakes his head, walking around Cas and coming to a stop just behind him. Castiel doesn't turn around.

Finally Dean says, "If it's a choice between doing nothing, and trying _something_, anything? Then, sorry." He makes a hard, no contest sound, turning around to Cas again, who still has his back to him. "I go down, I'm swinging, man. I want to know I did everything, and I mean _everything_, I could."

Dean stares at the slight, even set of Castiel's shoulders. There is, just barely, a slow rise and even slower fall, Cas's in-and-out breathing. And then Castiel's turning around, facing him, wearing this look like his angel-brain will never be able to wrap itself around Dean's messed up human-logic, no matter the length of time he's subjected to it. But he understands _Dean_, understands Dean-logic, which is really just a more self-loathing, messed up flavor of Winchester-logic, and maybe that's enough for him.

"There are... _things_... that skim below the surface," Cas offers. His gaze moves past Dean, to the water. When Dean follows it, after this beat where he thinks briefly, and it's not for the first time either, but he thinks about how one of these days he ought to put real thought into how damn awesome Cas can be when he chooses to, he sees now that, yeah, there are shadows in the lake that his thirst kind of mentally blocked out for him earlier, all slinking and eel-like.

Cas warns, "Be careful, Dean," with his eyes still locked on the water.

It is, as far as Dean can tell, a peace offering.

When he says back, "Thanks, Cas," he hopes it covers everything.

* * *

They aren't able to figure out how time works around here, mostly because it _doesn't_. Some hours there's a sun-like ball glowing sky high, lit up enough that they can get around by; other times they go for what feels like days without it. And even when it's there, its stay is like Sam's personality when he was sprouting through puberty: moody and temperamental and freaking unpredictable.

Food, too, is a weird thing. Hunger gnaws at Dean's stomach almost constantly, but he's only had the little bit of honey (and another round of poison berries, because apparently Purgatory makes him stupider than usual) yet he's still alive and kicking, not exactly worse for wear.

* * *

Cas is arranging rocks. He's sitting near the mouth of the cave, mostly visible by silhouette since the lights haven't turned on yet, screwing around with _rocks_.

He hears things down here that Dean can't, and Dean only knows this because Cas will sometimes stop, no matter where they are or what they're doing, and he'll _listen_. He won't say what it is he's hearing, though, not when Dean asks, and not when he isn't asking either. There aren't any more late night confessionals. It kind of feels like Castiel is keeping secrets, but Dean knows how that goes, has got a couple of things he keeps close to the vest himself. Like how every now and again it'll feel as if the cave walls are closing in on him, like some serious _Indiana Jones_ shit is about to go down, boulders rolling in from both sides with the intent of making him go splat down the middle. The whole damn world will shift, ground thundering from below like it's going to split wide open; the cave will tremble and press in on him, and just when he's sucking in a last lungful of air, when he's bracing for a pain he doesn't even know how to put a name to, everything will simply... stop. Go back to normal. Never have even moved in the first place.

It's stuff like that, the mind stuff, that raises Dean's hackles more than anything else Purgatory throws their way. How nothing feels real, not even the things that are solid and hard and tangible.

Pausing in his alignment of the rocks, Cas starts doing the freaky head tilt that means he's picking up noise from somewhere, his expression going dreary. Which is the reason Dean never pushes for Cas to spill; the guy looks like he's listening to drowning puppies every time it happens.

When Dean gets up, achy from the hard, unforgiving floor that's hell on his body, moving far slower than his 33+ years should, he squats down beside Cas and sees that there is actual method to Castiel's rock madness. It's not a decorative attempt to liven up the place; he's setting them in a specific circular order. Sigils, Dean figures. Or, hey, who knows, maybe Castiel is writing out an SOS in one of those languages only angels understand. Either way, Dean feels something drop low in his gut at the sight of it, and he doesn't know if it has to do with the five o'clock shadow Cas is perpetually rocking, and how that can't mean anything good, or if it's because every day they're stuck here it feels more and more like it really is just the two of them now, them against the whole damn world.

Castiel goes back to the rocks.

* * *

Turns out, there's a road.

It's something they almost literally stumble upon a few afternoons later, or an evening, or who the hell even knows when anymore, on another pointless attempt to find a way out. At first they don't even realize what it is, since it just looks like more of the same - leaves, dirt, motel Purgatory at its freaking finest - but then Castiel stops Dean in his forward trek with a hand at the back of his elbow.

Dean's pretty used to that by now. All the handsy, overly-feely touching. Mostly he chocks it up to the perpetual bleakness of the place, how it's way too easy to stumble into, you know, a freaking slew of nesting demons when you don't exactly have perfect vision to guide you. But it's an ease, too, that they've settled into, this weird comfort that goes both ways.

"Yeah? What?" he asks on a low, demanding grunt. Castiel nods, and when Dean follows the gesture, that's when he realizes they've gone from forest ground to solid pavement.

Dean's eyes lock right back on Castiel's, open wide this time. Silently he asks a whole shitload of questions, most of which circle right back around to: how the hell is a _road_ in _Purgatory_ even possible?

Instead of answering - because, hi, hello, have you met Castiel? Dude gets off on withholding information - Cas just continues to tread forward, pushing past Dean without bothering to so much as politely go around him. Dean pivots and follows, right at his heels.

"Feels like we're, I don't know, _trespassing_," he comments as they go. The trees continue to close in on them from both sides, these skinny, mostly leafless dead branches, but the road's a hollowed out, one lane path. It makes Dean feel exposed, even though it's only a gray, foggy haze they have to see and be seen by. Cas has got to be feeling the same, because he slows his pace until the two of them are grazing shoulders, the narrowness of the road pressing them in close. Behind them, something howls, or bays, or makes whatever sound incarnated evil does when it's showing off.

"Hope you know this is usually the point in the movie where the hot blonde chick gets ganked," Dean FYIs, snarky about it. "That's you."

Castiel side-eyes him with a glare. Yeah, yeah. Always so touchy.

"Think we'll find Hansel and-"

"Would it kill you to keep quiet?" Cas asks, all put out and harassed. You know, like Dean's the loud mouth in the back of the van who can't quit asking, _Are we there yet_?

"Actually, yeah," he shoots back and feels mostly pleased with himself when that just further ruffles Cas' feathers. But then, because it's no fun when Cas is being a sulky bore, he says, "Dude, what crawled up your ass-"

Cas cuts him off by coming to a sudden dead stop. Dean does too, watching Castiel's eyes narrow at something ahead of them, but when he looks himself, all he sees is shadows and the dark.

"Hello, boys," Gabriel greets, stepping out of _nowhere_.

Laser fast, Cas tenses up. "Gabriel," he says around what's basically a growl, _damn_. It's like right off the bat he's expecting this to turn into some kind of 'two men enter, one man leaves' Thunderdome situation.

"Cute. Look, he's posturing," Gabriel coos at Dean with a smarmy smirk on his face. It might as well be attached directly to Dean's fist for as much as he wants to immediately pummel the guy. At the humorless looks he's getting back, Gabriel rolls his eyes. "You know, you two oughta lighten up a smidge. Enjoy the scenery," he offers, holding his hands out like there's something about this place worth checking out, like it isn't just _never-ending forest_.

"Makes sense," Dean quips, raspy-sounding, "you being the big bad dick in the woods."

Gabriel's smirk grows bigger, dirtier. There are pretty much genital gyrations going on. For the record? As disturbing as it sounds. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I'd like seeing you dead a hell of a lot more."

"Anyone ever tell you it's not nice to promise threats when you can't follow through?"

"Anyone ever tell you you've got _douche_ where your face should be?"

Gabriel throws his head back and laughs at that, this hard, amused cackle that only further pisses Dean off, sending twills of hate all through his body. Seriously, punchy-punchy time.

Beside him, Castiel heaves out a sigh like he lost his patience three comebacks ago. "This is a waste of time." With some prissiness, he turns and goes, but Gabriel must be looking to out-drama Cas, because he sobers up quick.

"Oh, come on! Seriously?" he demands. "So I'm just here, what, to toy with you? Come _on_, little bro. Where's that great big, fate-shattering imagination of yours? Why do you _think_ I'm right here, right now?" he wants to know, and there's something about the way he rolls out the _here_ and _now_ that makes Dean perk up, his interest caught.

Cas has stopped without turning around. Wherever his aggression had slunk off to when he was busy wearing bees and flying solo over the cuckoo's nest, it's since come back with some serious additional wrath, like it's got some making up to do. He's practically vibrating with it.

With Castiel's attention hooked, Gabriel lurks in close, looking like your generic villain about to drop a load of plot-heavy exposition. "I'll paint you a word picture. Let's say there was this one angel, an archangel, more hedonistic than most. _Beloved_. Iconic. The face of both arousal and lore. Say he got slaughtered for a _completely pointless_ cause. That ringing any bells?" The bite in that, and how it's snapped in Dean's direction with loads of accusation, gets Cas to finally face back around, slow and full of menace. He's still holding himself, too, like any second there's going to be angel-on-angel action, and not the Pay Per View kind, which only makes Gabriel's smile grow wide as he picks back up on his spiel. "Now say that same angel wanted, I don't know. _Vengeance_."

Dean looks from Gabriel to Cas and back again, sputtering. "You _helped_ us out, your own free damn will-"

"Maybe I did! Hey, or maybe I just wanted to see Luci one last time before the world got deep-fried in the Hell batter. BFFs, the two of us," he snarks, icy cold, "_so_ close. Until he STABBED ME IN THE FREAKING HEART. And, you know, I loved humanity. I did. You guys, you're like the Energizer battery. You take a licking and just keep on ticking and ticking _and ticking_. But not me. My brother killed me, and I wound up _here_."

Now that they know what Gabriel's deal is - and that's some _seriously_ misplaced blame issues, come on now - Cas loosens up some. "Your fate isn't at the fault of the Winchesters," he tries, sounding pretty damn reasonable about it if you ask Dean, but Gabriel cuts that off with some derision.

"Ho-_ly_ crap! Are you new here? You miss the previouslies or something?" He makes a jabbing gesture Dean's way. "_Everything_ is a Winchester's fault. Apocalypse, _no_ apocalypse. Pepsi Blue. Fall from grace," he says with purpose, and that one's rolled out disapprovingly, something that makes Cas stiffen up again. It's exactly the reaction Gabriel wanted, and when he gets it, he turns on the sneer. "Huh. Whose fault was that last one, _bro_?"

Not finished being a ranting dick, Gabriel slinks up close, until he's crowding Castiel's space. Loyalty, or a kind of familial protectiveness, makes it so Dean's wound up just as tense, pulse battering away.

"Castiel the constant," Gabriel barks out like it's a title, loud and obnoxious, starting to circle around Cas. His steps are lazy and deliberate, him weaving in close every now and again. "Daddy's little steadfast cadet. Kind of the nerdy, teacher's pet type, weren't you, Cas?"

Cas doesn't so much as waver, keeping his gaze locked on some fixed point ahead. Dean, on the other hand, is feeling like he's had enough of the after school special on bullying. He's barely even thought that, though, let alone moved to put a stop to things, when Gabriel locks ominous eyes on him.

"Take _one_ step, and see how hard it is to mop angel out of the décor."

Dean automatically listens, his limbs locking up, but even so he sways just a little, faltering. Call it a hero complex, or ego, but he figures he could probably take the guy.

Gabriel rolls his eyes. "Archangel, _hello_. It's like I need a name tag."

Cas swivels his head towards Gabriel, gaze following a single beat after. "You're wrathful," he acknowledges, and that starts Gabriel up again, gets him moving like he's one of those wind-up monkeys.

He whistles out his astonishment. "Nothing gets by you, does it?"

Cas rotates in sync with him, so that Gabriel stays in his line of sight. "Gabriel. Listen to me. You don't have to be," he tries once more, but that, too, gets quickly rejected.

"Not that it isn't absolutely inspiring; seriously, this is riveting stuff, but I've actually heard this speech before," Gabriel tells him. "Well, secondhand," he admits, before going, "Seriously, have you boneheads checked the news blogs at all? AOL homepage? That's like a dead language down here." With a breathy sigh, like he's clearing this up for Cas' sake, he says, " _I'm_ here. You're here. Who _else_ could be here? Oh! Right. Those hundreds upon _thousands_ of angels you massacred."

That hits below the belt, exactly as desired. Castiel's whole face goes blank, and he drags his gaze directly in front of him again, jaw clenched tight like he's newly determined to suffer through the rest of this intended tongue lashing. He doesn't even bat an eye when Gabriel leans in and confides, "Topside scandal trickles in fast around here," as if he's actually commiserating.

This new grab-ankle tactic Cas has decided to work with? Pisses Dean off.

Yeah, fine, so Gabriel's a dick of an archangel who could smite them where they stand, but holy hell, he wants Cas to friggin' _stand up for himself._ Get in a couple of his own licks. _Something_, hell, _anything_ that isn't just bending over and taking it.

Gabriel pulls away, taking careful steps backwards. He's not smiling anymore, all the goading gone, like the fun's been sucked dry. Instead he's watching Cas with this expression on his face that Dean can't quite figure out. Until, all of a sudden, he _can_, and he realizes that it's pity. That Gabriel's staring at Cas like Cas is some poor, lost schmuck, like he's damaged goods, and that's just... screw that noise, man.

But then Dean looks over Castiel for himself, really _looks_, and he sees it too. Cas thinks he deserves this. The stupid son of a bitch is taking this like it's some twisted penance.

Bored of the game now, and deciding on an early exit, Gabriel gives Cas a messy salute. "Just something to chew on," he says before slapping on a smirk and winging up out of there.

Dean blinks and snaps out of it. Cas, on the other hand, doesn't move at all.

"Great," Dean ribs, "tell me I'm not gonna have to deal with the douche-in-laws dropping by any ol' time they feel like it," but it's pretty damn weak, missing most of the humor he'd been going for. Instead it sounds like he's tiptoeing around some heavy emotions. "Cas?"

Cas comes out of it, finally, like he's waking out of screensaver mode, but he won't meet Dean's eyes. "Come on," is all he says, heading back the way they came.

"_Cas_," Dean tries again.

Cas keeps going.

* * *

Stupidly, Dean thinks things can't get any worse.

No food, zero commodities, absolutely nothing in terms of in-flight entertainment. C'mon.

Irony's always had it out for him, though, which means Dean's only mildly surprised when the crap detector needles directly South.

Cas is hiking up this giant fallen tree branch about a dozen feet to Dean's right, in the two o'clock position, shiny angel sword poking out of his sleeves. They've been hit with enough random attacks that Cas keeps it close now. Dean still hasn't found a decent weapon for himself. They've tried to make one, him and Cas both, but the rocks, for as solid and jagged as they are when Dean's using them as furniture, tend to always crumble, and wood does shit. Cas let him use his sword once - threw it right to him mid-fight when Dean had been backed into a corner and thinking maybe that was it - and only wound up getting his hand singed. Turns out, glowy swords? Not meant for the weaker species, not in Purgatory anyway.

There's a crackle in the air, then, a sound like a radio on the fritz, only instead of a radio, it's the entire freaking atmosphere around them, and in Dean's next step, he's landed himself in a whole new level of ass-backwards weird. Gone goes the creepy serial killer woods with its lurking evil and constant rattle of noises both near and far, and poof comes a whole heck of a lot of pink.

Pink. _Pink_. Because all of a sudden Dean is standing in the middle of a room tackily decorated in every variant of Pepto Bismol color that exists on God's green Home Depot. There's a bed with one of those canopy coverings that makes his mind automatically leer, makes him think _virgin, heh_ because he is nothing if not perpetually twelve.

Beside him, Cas flickers in from out of nowhere, not there one blink and suddenly so the next. You'd think Dean would be used to it by now, given how Castiel's never once strayed from similar introductory habits, but it gives him something like a small heart attack, pulse jumping wild for one quick, rib-slamming beat.

"Dammit, Cas," he grounds out, because it's always easier to lay into him with annoyance than admit Dean's the type that spooks easy.

Castiel, though, moves past Dean, towards the bed with its mountain of poofy pillows that has Dean's whole body feeling like it's laced with iron and they're magnets and he is unwillingly drawn to them. It's not exactly a secret, but Dean is tired of the cave life. Hard floor and harder rock walls and only his jacket to keep him warm at night. Dean thinks he wouldn't even mind all the pink and frill of the bed, if it meant a solid night's sleep.

"We shouldn't be here," Castiel tells him uneasily, just as Dean's starting to let himself be pulled in by the allure of sweet, pillowy comfort. Castiel turns back to Dean, his face drawn serious, which just figures.

"And where the hell is _here_, anyway?" he asks back. You'd think he would've noticed the pretty pink Purgatory room before now.

Castiel holds Dean's stare for a long beat before directing it around the room, taking stock of their location. Apparently he's not a fan of princess pink either, because he gets one of those prissy glowers of his going. "Inside a ripple."

Dean snorts. Of course the answer wouldn't be something that his brain might be able to wrap around, like, _South side of Purgatory is the suburbs, Dean, did you not check with the YOU ARE HERE directory map_? No, instead it has to involve some kind of sci-fi, Star Trek, nerds-only science.

"'Course we are," he shoots back. Great, and now that bed's not looking so cozy anymore.

"This place," Cas says, and he turns in a 180, shoulders hunched way up like he's getting some seriously bad vibes, "has been fabricated only because a being powerful enough to produce it willed it so."

Dean's brain chugs behind Castiel's words, needing time to catch up. "You saying this is all make-believe?"

"To a degree," Cas gives back, vague.

"Yeah, okay. Because I'm doomed to never-ending Purgatory, frilly-pink froo-froo rooms are something I'd mojo up too." The sarcastic _NOT_ is pretty much implied, but Dean snorts under his breath anyway.

Castiel is giving him a less judgmental but still fully uncomprehending version of his you-dumb-human stare. "What difference do the aesthetics make? We've likely stepped into the ripple of something that once found the idea of this-" And that is accompanied by a slight, gesturing tilt of his head at the walls, at the surrounding furniture that, okay, now that Dean is really looking, seems more antiquated than he originally registered, "-to be of comfort. How it appears is insignificant. _That_ it appears is not."

Dean's still not getting it, not really, but he thinks this might be Purgatory's version of that _memory lane_ thing Heaven had going for it, where Dean slid in and out of the few non-dysfunctional times of his childhood like a good dream.

Be kinda cool if he could mind-whammy himself up something like that down here too.

Figures that's when they hear a thumping sound overhead, then another right after that, like something's dropped on top of the roof and then started _dragging_, and that gets Castiel all straight-spined and tense. He looks up at where the ceiling should be, except now there's no ceiling, now it's Purgatory as Dean knows it, the pink and the walls glimmering oily like heat over pavement.

"Wanna bet that's Goldilocks?" Dean says on a murmur, which gets him, for just a second, the come-again-with-that-reference look from Cas, but then there's this loud ass screeching that has Dean scrambling to cover his ears. He hunches over instinctively, little good that's even doing. The noise is deafening and pissed the fuck off and louder than Dean's ever heard before, so loud it's almost like he can't even _hear_ it.

When Dean looks up, bent at a weird angle with his elbows getting in the way and his back twisted almost painfully, he sees that whatever lives here has come home and isn't too psyched about the uninvited guests. All Dean has time to glimpse is talons and a tail that whips around and snake-looking scales before he is swallowed up in the shadow of Castiel protectively huddling over him.

The thing gets louder, more pissed, squawking what probably translates into _get the fuck out_ insults at them, when Dean feels this electric tingle thrum up his entire spine. His vision sways black and then there is an airy _weight_ pressing down on him, and when he looks up again he sees wings - Castiel's.

Cas is breathing heavy down Dean's neck, they are touching from his chest to Dean's back with a warmth in those places that sears straight down to bones, and then they _aren't_. Because then they're pitching forward through a tunnel of air and molecules until, just like that, they're somewhere else entirely.

Abruptly there is silence and air that doesn't feel like it's compressing his lungs and the familiar cave floor beneath his feet. He doesn't move, and Castiel doesn't move, and it feels like both the shortest and longest time that he stays under the bracket of Castiel's arms, until his body has caught up with that fastforward hurtle through time.

He can feel every part of Cas against him, normal Cas, wings slicked back again now that the threat of pissed off ripple-owner isn't literally on top of them anymore, and it shouldn't be something that his brain halts and lingers on. How solid of a weight Cas is, how hot the press of them together feels, warming Dean up for maybe the first time since they got here. Shared body heat. There's definitely something Brokeback about that, jerking at the edge of Dean's thoughts to try and get his attention. Castiel lets out this breath, this deep, careful sigh pulled from the back of his throat that likely doesn't mean anything beyond _it's inconvenient how often you find yourself in mortal danger, Dean Winchester_, but it hits Dean oven-warm right under his collar, solid as a mack truck.

When Cas shifts off him, Dean swears it's with a reluctance, like maybe something was happening for him too, but he shifts and he's gone and that cold seeps back into Dean quick as counting to three.

Dean turns around to find Castiel, gives him a searching look. Castiel meets it without matching it.

"So," Dean ventures after a loaded beat. "Dragon?"

"Yes."

"Awesome."

* * *

Because cave-dwelling lost its appeal on Day 01, they take time to scour the vicinity, keep their antennas up for any kind of signal from radio Sam. It's mostly useless. They've been in Purgatory long enough that the stay's started to feel indefinite, that probably Dean should look into a change of address after all. But there are always monsters to kill, there is always something waiting to be slayed, and if Dean's stuck here with Cas, that leaves crowd control up to them.

Nearby, Castiel is straddling an arachnes. There's a wet, gurgling sound where its head has been hacked clean off, courtesy of Cas. For the record, Dean could do without those freaky bitches. They've always got web coming out of weird places.

Meanwhile, something small goes whizzing past Dean's face, fast, with this noise like a mosquito buzzing loud in his ear.

Dean actually swats at the air in front of him. "What the hell," he complains, not exactly psyched, because, hey, fantastic, how awesome does _swarms of evil insects_ sound, except _not awesome at all_. Jesus. Only then he notices that Cas looks even less thrilled than he is. Cas, actually, is bent over, a hand pressed up against his side where he's leaking bright angel-mojo all over the place.

Dean's heart lurches somewhere up into the general vicinity of his throat. "Cas?"

Another of those _whatever_'s goes zinging by, and then another, and that second one clips Cas square in the back. Dean watches it tear straight through him, all the way, making a second slice that spills glowy angel light everywhere. At that, Cas shoots an annoyed glance Dean's way, like this is some minor inconvenience that is somehow Dean's fault, and then he's hunching over, trying to keep the spill of his grace contained.

Dean's at his side quick as he can make it, slipping over a forest floor that's never met a freaking weed whacker.

There's this darting blur in the bundle of trees ahead of them, along with a leafy rustle of noise that means, freaking awesome, they're being hunted. Or, Dean reconsiders, Cas slumping bodily against him, _one_ of them's being hunted, and it ain't him.

Another of those things whines past. That would be their cue to get the hell out of Dodge, then. "Cas, hey, you gotta work with me, man," he grunts, trying to pull Castiel along, but Cas has come over all dazed, the guy's turned into nothing but dead weight. Dean's brain heaves out a long-suffering sigh that tangles with a sudden swell of panic. _Not a good time to turn into a damsel in distress, buddy._

That rustling leafy sound from before? Pretty much dials up its volume, so now it's one extra loud noise of doom and foreboding. Dean's going out on a limb here, but he figure's it's probably not pizza delivery.

Definitely not pizza delivery, Dean's brain throws in his face some quick three seconds later, though it _is_ a dude that steps out. And who it is, who he sees - this battle-beaten figure slinking out of the undergrowth like some sinister plume of smoke - it has Dean's fingers curling instinctively into Cas's coat.

"Gordon?"

Dean's stomach practically bottoms out.

"Dean Winchester," Gordon greets. "About time." He's wearing a huge, shit-eating smile, one that Dean's seen on him before, because the two of them? They go way back. Gordon's there in those misty, watercolor memories, when the most Dean had to ever worry about Sam was whether or not the kid was going to have a psychic freakshow attack in the middle of a crowded diner. Back when Gordon meant _threat_, and that was _before_ the dude was turned into a friggin' vampire.

Also, Dean was almost fried nice and crispy by the guy. He's not looking for a repeat performance, and for the first time in a while, there's actual fear flooding his senses.

"Long time no see," he quips anyway, re-clutching a now seriously drooping Cas. He's aiming for collected and hoping to pull off aggressive, but his tone gives out just enough halfway through that Gordon's grin cranks up another couple notches. No sign of fangs, though.

"You know how long I've been waiting for this day?" Gordon wonders, inching close. He's handling some kind of weird, makeshift-looking weapon - a gun, awesome - that Dean eyes without being obvious. Hell if Dean even knows how, but whatever's loaded in it is doing some serious damage to Cas. "Always knew we'd dance again."

It's probably not the best time for sarcasm, but Dean doesn't fight back a snort. "Yeah, that's not creepy at all."

Gordon lifts the gun and fires. Easy and friggin' _crazy_ as that, hitting Cas square in the shoulder.

Panicky and pissed, Dean grits out, "Hey!" Castiel sags even further, the fabric of his coat going taut in Dean's fist where he's trying to keep the both of them upright. He's noiseless, too, which hikes up Dean's worry.

"You, friends with an _angel_," Gordon goes on, laughing it out a little, like he can't quite wrap his head around it. Dean tugs at Cas, gets his fingers wrapped tight again. "No, you know what, that makes a lot of sense. God's most loyal servant, paired with Earth's most loyal. A Winchester. How hard you must've broke this one..." Gordon lets that trail off with a suggestive hook of his eyebrow that Dean doesn't really care for, thank you very much. His glare only hardens.

"See you worked on your speechifying," he blows out in congratulations, trying to clutch at Cas and get them moving somewhere less out in the open, but Gordon, of course, notices. He raises his gun at them, barrel suddenly staring them both down. "Woah! _Woah_, okay," Dean bites out roughly, coming to a slow, look-at-me-happily-complying-you-freaking-psycho stop, though he's pissed about it. "_Alright_."

"Dean, Dean," Gordon says, breezy as can be, not letting the gun drop. He edges closer, twigs making snapping, crunching noises underfoot. "See, way I figure it? You owe me."

Dean snorts again, even though, yeah, probably not the best response, not when the muscles in his arm are starting to burn where gripping Castiel's full weight is becoming an issue, and not when he's face-to-face, either, with a guy who's got a major hard-on for inflicting some very specific damage in Dean's life. "Yeah, well," he says on a hard, dodgy chuckle, "your logic sucks."

Gordon lets his head lull from side to side like he's considering it, and then he pulls the trigger again. This time Cas gets hit in the thigh.

"Jesus christ, seriously what _the hell_ is your problem!" Dean yells out, past the point now of delicately wandering around the obvious crazy Gordon's got going for him.

"Here I am, in this great big sprawl of paradise," Gordon says, arms flung out, which at least gets the gun aimed elsewhere for the moment, "and the whole time I'm here, I'm thinking one thing. _Dean_."

"Again," Dean snarks, though it's got less bite this time; his nerves are jumping around wildly. "Little on the creepy side."

"_Dean_," Gordon just repeats, like he hadn't even heard him. "Dean, Dean, Dean. Got the one word, just that, rolling around in here all the time." He points with the gun at his own head. Dean would like said gun to misfire, in a preferably messy and painful way, but it doesn't. "Imagining all the ways, the next time I saw you, I'd be able to do to you what you did to me. Kind of, I don't know. _Sustained_ me. Made the long nights bearable. Knowing one day, I'd get to do this."

He aims the gun at Cas, aims it right at his chest, and before Dean can even do a damn thing about it, a shotgun blast goes off loud enough and near enough that Dean's ears start belting off a ringing noise. His heart jerks violently, he's only got one thought in his head and that's _please, no_, but it doesn't even get a chance to fully form because it's _Gordon_ that takes the hit.

Dean stares where there's fresh blood pooling through Gordon's jacket, just under his ribs. Gordon looks equal parts bewildered and pissed, but then he raises his eyes to Dean's and _bolts_. He takes off into the underbrush, gone quick like he'd never even been there in the first place. And in the space he leaves behind, outlined there in a smoky silhouette Dean would recognize anywhere, that goddamned billed cap, is a sight that leaves Dean gaping.

His heart feels like it's some piece of crap lawn mower that won't get going, all stuttering starts and stops before barely chugging to life.

There's a long beat, and then a voice that physically hurts to hear going, "Well? You just gonna stand there gawkin' all day?"

Gawking? Hell, Dean's not even sure he's _breathing_ anymore. Somehow he still manages to get out a one hundred percent dumbfounded, "_Bobby_?"

"Yeah," Bobby answers, like he isn't too pleased about it himself. He shoulders a rifle. "It's me."


End file.
